Specialis Revelio (because we both know the past is never past)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: He apparated to Spinner's End with a thundering crack. Refusing point blank to cast a muffliato on the echoes when the dusty lace curtains in the neighbor's parlor twitched.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the rights to the Harry Potter franchine or AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside. This was originally requested by teamcarolbitch on tumblr and championed by fandomtookmyhandandsaidrun.

 **Authors Note #1:** (No zombies) AU on the ending of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" where instead of dying immediately the venom caused Snape to endure a slow, lingeringly painful death. Thus having time for some 'before death commiserating' with an old 'friend.' This is a Daryl/Snape (past relationship) and a Caryl (present relationship) fic.

 **Warnings:** This is basically Daryl in the Wizarding word, visiting Britain as an American wizard who did a brief exchange program thingie at Hogwarts during his fifth year while Snape was also a student at Hogwarts. Adult language, ust, canon character death, angst, drama, hurt/comfort, injury/illness/physical deterioration and mild sexual content.

 **Specialis Revelio (because we both know the past is never past)**

 **Chapter One**

He apparated to Spinner's End with a thundering crack. Refusing point blank to cast a muffliato on the echoes when the dusty lace curtains in the neighbor's parlor twitched. His lip curled as he stamped his boot, turning up his collar against the pouring rain as the shadows between the nearest shitty brick house twisted and warped. Rippling at the edges until the outline of a person – long robes, neatly trimmed hair, tall – hazed rather damningly into view.

He just snorted and showed his teeth.

 _Aurors._

 _Couldn't find their own balls if you handed it to 'em on a silver platter._

 _Glad to see that much hadn't changed._

He remained where he was, boot heels grinding across the cobblestones as he shook out a cigarette and pressed the tip of his wand to the end. He kept it there until the Dogwood point – twelves inches and sturdy with a dragon heart-string core - glowed cherry red. The curtain on the parlor window twitched violently this time, enough to reveal the shocked 'o' of a shocked mouth and lips that whispered deeper into the depths of the squat little house.

 _Muggles, then._

The shadows lurking under the eaves rippled in response as he inhaled. The magical signature irritated this time as it was joined by another, then another. Giving him the distinct impression they were not only staring at him, but probably shit talking him as well before the sound of raised voices – something about 'skulking layabouts, 'devil worship,' 'police' and 'unchristian behavior' – drifted clearly from the open window.

He raised a brow, giving both audiences the one finger salute. Wondering privately how many times the idiots had been forced to obliviate the nosy neighbors as he sucked the sweet rasp of smoke deeper into his lungs. Willing it to warm him from the inside as the damp cold that seemed integral to Britain in general wormed its way through his skin.

 _Let the pretty Ministry boys deal with it._

 _They all got wands, don't they?_

 _Or did that last batch of Ministry decrees demand they hand over their brains too?_

He was about halfway through flirting with lung cancer – seriously considering the merits of just lighting them all at once to regain some feeling in his fingers – when the door to Snape's old stomping grounds creaked open.

He remained where he was, square in the middle of the street as a man - ginger hair gently thinning - peeked out. He sized him up quietly. Knowing the Brit was doing the same. The man was pale and drawn but noticeably kind-faced. A bleeding fuckin' heart if he'd ever seen one. Something that was enough to put his hackles up any day of the week, but it only got worse when another red-head, younger and freckled and a curly brown-haired thing stepped out behind him. Closing the door with a firm but quiet snap that echoed like the end-note of a battle cry in the stale Cokeworth air.

He eyed them carefully. Recognizing them from the papers.

 _Arthur Weasley. Ron Weasley. And Hermione Granger._

"Daryl Dixon?" the older man asked, phrasing it like a question though both of them knew it was anything but. Everything about this shitty place looked unused – dilapidated. There were no flowers. No mail. No sign that anyone had even been in the area other than the Aurors' guarding it and a few self-appointed guard dogs. The guilt that wreathed the place was almost thick enough to overpower the harsh, chemical tang of anger and resentment that seemed to cloak the entire town like a shroud.

 _Seemed appropriate._

He hadn't seen Snape in close to three decades, but he had a feeling there was a remarkably short list of people who wanted to have a word with him – even if he was kickin' the bucket. He might have been half a world away during the war, but he'd read the papers. He'd been keeping an eye out while he had been taking care of his own fucking problems.

The war hadn't just effected Britain. It had been everywhere. And like war tended to do, it caused ripple effects through everything else. Tensions had been high and people had gotten sloppy. The lines between the wizarding world and the muggle one had started to bleed into one another. Only the muggles were usually the ones that suffered for it, seeing shit they shouldn't and bleating to the wrong people. Hell, he and Rick had been balls deep for the past twelve months undercover. Nipping half formed wanna-be Death Eater groups before they could reach out to Lord Shitsack and get America mixed up in something that was none of its god damned business.

 _Again._

The Potions Master, now newly minted with an Order of Merlin, first class, had never exactly inspired many feel good emotions in those around him. You had to have a thick skin to stand him, and that was back in their school days. Word on the street was he'd turned it into an art form since he caught that one way Trans-Atlantic broom ride back to the good ol' red, white and blue.

He cocked his head, remembering, hiding a smile as he exhaled. Still, you couldn't deny Snape didn't have a flair for it. Especially considering that the Daily Prophet had all but _pounced_ on the story when it came out that he'd sent the damn award back in pieces. Liberally laced with some unknown hex that'd turned the ears of those responsible into that of various barnyard animals.

Hell, he'd been like that – snarly, sarcastic and on the fell end of quietly sadistic for as long as he'd known him. Figured that being inches from shaking hands with the Grim Reaper wouldn't change that. It was almost reassuring, in a fucked up sort of way.

"What do you think?" he returned flippantly, taking another long puff and holding it. Enjoying watching the younger ginger turn an extremely unflattering shade of puce as the girl – because she was still that – fixed him with a careful stare.

"Password?" Arthur Weasley continued, clipped but polite – like he hadn't even spoken - the slight rankling softly. Not even batting an eye as one of the Aurors slithered out of the shadows, casting a charm that changed his clothing into that of a muggle police officer and knocked smartly on the neighbour's door.

"The man is dying," he hissed, gripping his wand as the wood warmed soothingly in his palm. "What do you think I'm gunna to do? Make him die faster?"

Suddenly angry all over again. Cursing himself for being such a sentimental pussy and answering that stupid owl in the first place. Angry like he'd been when he'd heard the damned venom was killing him slow. Angry like he'd been when he'd heard what the man had done – for all of them. Angry that part of him had believed it, believed Severus had really been Lord Dickhead's lap-dog when he'd really been neck deep in the world's longest double-cross. Saving a world that for all intents and purposes hadn't given him anything but shit since the moment he'd been born.

"At this point it might be more of a blessing than you'd think," the older man murmered, eyes going sad around the edges – something that was distinctly at war with his conflicted expression. Standing his ground despite the handful of steps he'd taken towards the trio.

The younger ones tightened around their wands like a reflex - a warning. But they shouldn't have bothered. The older man's expression told him everything he needed to know. Everything he needed to know about Snape and how bad off he was. But also about them. About why they were doing this – watching over him - even when it was clear that Snape had never really been one of them.

His lip quirked. That, at least, was familiar. Snape usually inspired that in people. Uncertainty. _Doubt._ The inability to completely hate the bastard even when you were a hundred and ten percent sure he deserved it. He'd always been slippery like that. Less of a catch and release and more of a shoot to kill situation.

"Cherokee Rose," he grunted, snorting when they visibly relaxed. Feeling the magic that surrounded the house and its weed-choked yard shudder and part. Thinking of all the ways he could have killed them already as he ran a hand through shaggy rain-slick hair. They were too good to ever be _really_ good at this, that much was clear. _But then again, that was the point, wasn't it? To keep the good people good and the bad on the ropes?_

"Gonna make me dance for my supper too?" he drawled, allowing them to lead the way up the porch steps. Spread out at the wings like some sort of half assed honor guard.

"Only if you think it will lighten the mood around here," Weasley junior muttered sarcastically as they piled inside. Trying not to jump when the echoing shriek of rusty hinges bled out into the sudden quiet.

"Where is he?"

"In the bedroom," Arthur replied, indicating not to the master, but the small room at the end as a shaky hand combed nervously through his hair. Looking truly exhausted for the first time as he fixed him with a look and held it. Thinking over his words before speaking.

"Listen mate, I don't know how you know Severus. Honestly there has been so much on our plates no one has had the time to figure out who you are or why. But you should know that he's on borrowed time. Even more than he's been since, well- He should have died _hours_ ago. But the stubborn bastard has been clinging on, drinking potions to keep himself lucid enough to see you. So, whatever it is that's between you, from one man to the next, be quick about it. He's suffered enough."

He nodded, feeling a muscle in his cheek twitch as he extinguished the butt with his thumb and pinched out the ashes. Tossing it in the direction of the fire-grate before he pocketed his wand and started down the hall.

"He asked for you, you know," the girl started, speaking for the first time as she twisted an anxious curl around her finger. Something in her voice making him pause, hand out-stretched, barely there as the tips ghosted across the flaking brass finish of the handle. So close, yet so far. Feeling three separate sets of eyes burning into his back, curious, maybe even suspicious as his tongue darted out – snake-like – tasting the air.

"You were the only one he asked for. When I-when I wrote the letter, I must have asked him a dozen times who else he wanted. But there wasn't anyone else. He wouldn't tell me why, he just wanted you. _Only you_."

There was an unasked question there.

But he didn't acknowledge it.

 _He couldn't._

Instead, he turned the knob and walked inside, closing the door firmly behind him.

* * *

 **A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter, stay tuned.

 **Reference:**

Title refers to the spell of the same name: "Specialis Revelio" which causes an object to reveal its hidden secrets and/or magical properties.

Daryl's wand is made out of "Dogwood" – a tree that is extremely hard and strong, and the wands made from it will have this resilience. It was once used for making daggers, and hence had a slight violent streak.

Daryl's wand has a dragon heart-string core, meaning: Dragon heartstring is a powerful wand with a lot of magical "heft". It is not the core you want for subtlety, but for sheer power it is definitely the best. Although it is the most common core among Dark Wizards, Dark Wizards are most certainly not their most common users. Dragon heartstrings are by far the most common wand core amongst Slytherins, but their power often bonds to Gryffindors and Ravenclaws as well. However, they tend to overwhelm the archetypal Hufflepuff personality.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the rights to the Harry Potter franchine or AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** (No zombies) AU on the ending of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" where instead of dying immediately the venom caused Snape to endure a slow, lingeringly painful death. Thus having time for some 'before death commiserating' with an old 'friend.' This is a Daryl/Snape (past relationship) and a Caryl (present relationship) fic.

 **Warnings:** This is basically Daryl in the Wizarding word, visit Britian as an American wizard who did a brief exchange program thingie at Hogwarts during his fifth year while Snape was also a student at Hogwarts. Adult language, ust, canon character death, angst, drama, hurt/comfort, injury/illness and mild sexual content.

 **Specialis Revelio (because we both know the past is never passed)**

 **Chapter Two**

The door was warm at his back, too warm. Like sticking your face into a lit oven on a hot summer's day. He sucked in a breath, taking in the room flicker-quick, skating like thin ice over the shape lumped up under the blankets in favor of memorizing the barren walls and peeling wall paper. Feeling like it was safer to focus on the stack of untouched spell books arranged on the side table than the half dozen empty potion bottles strewn across every available surface. Some with labels. Some not.

The skin around his lips pulled tight. Pursed, like a closed-mouth snarl as sallow lids fluttered. Gaunt skin tensing and releasing - like a barricade of skeletons holding court – as the man emerged from the blanket-laden corpse. Blinking slow and unfocused as the world took shape around him.

 _Christ, Sev…what have you gone and done to yourself now?_

He pulled at his collar as sweat started slicking down from his temples. For shit's sake, with all the heating charms they'd cast in here you'd think it was hell's _fuckin'_ kitchen. He sucked in a breath, shakier than he'd ever admit to as he tried to get used to it. It was stifling and tight, host to that crackling sort of humidity that made you want to close your eyes, half-convinced the air would suck the moisture right out of them the moment you pried your lids open.

But he didn't. Just like with the girl only moments before, he couldn't.

 _No. He looked up, eyes open._

And just like he had that moment in the dungeons all those years ago. Hands sweaty, heart threatening to beat right out of his chest. Prick twitching with nervous interest as Snape materialized out of the shadows of the abandoned classroom. He told himself he was not afraid.

It was worse than he thought. Seeing him. _Seeing him like this._ Hollowed out and light. Brittle with bones that shone through his skin. It was a sickness you could taste. Smell. Hear. All inclusive and cancerous. Leeching the life from the air and everything around it as the man's veins glowed dark and angry under his skin.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted the bitter swill of his own iron. The wrongness of it hit him like a slap. Severus had never been something synonymous with weakness or frailty. Even when he was down for the count, ostracized or shoved so far into a corner you had to wonder if he was just a reflection, he always came back all the stronger for it.

 _But not now._

 _Not this time._

"I didn't think you'd come," the ghost remarked, toneless but not cold as keen eyes watched him shift with discomfort. Snagging a chair with the crook of his thumb as he dragged it closer to the bed and dropped down, slumping – knee joints creaking.

"A Dixon always honors a debt," he rasped by way of answer. Drawing his worn leather robes closer around him. Giving his attention to the ivory-bone of the hand carved buttons catching in the ember-light as a fire roared on the other side of the room. Feeling more or less grounded when the soft rabbit hair he'd sown into the insides hushed across the jut of his chin.

The man's chuckle was rattling and coarse. Liquid-warped and stretched as his body shook through it. Stripped down so that the truth shone through, damning and bright. "There is no debt, never was. No excuse that made you come here. Not unless the meaning of the word has changed since that thrice damned snake. I am dying. Not dead, Dixon. Not yet anyway. But if that's how you're planning on justifying it, you probably won't have to wait too long in your ill-conception."

He shifted, discomfort tensing across the hard line of his shoulders, composure cracking around the edges. _Dammit_. He'd come this far repeating it like a mantra. Telling himself that he was doing this because of past debts, past loyalty… _past history_. But just like he always did, Snape called bullshit. Not kind enough to let him cloak himself in it and just enough of a sadist to point it out.

He was about to say something. Something biting. Something that would make sense after all the years they'd spent apart. All the years he'd spent trying to forget. But instead, he settled for nearly swallowing his tongue when Snape's hand brushed across the curl of his own. Bone dry and weak as heavy lids slung low with honest exhaustion.

"I'm glad you did."

* * *

"You look like shit," he opened, bland and only slightly biting when the man woke up again. Forcing himself to take it in stride when Snape only blinked at him - clearing half blinded eyes as that damn venom took him apart in pieces.

"How long?" the man asked, lungs rattling. Chest rising and falling - labored and slow - like the flutter of decade old ghosts. He let it go on for a smattering of beats before he leaned forward, digging a mug from between the empty bottles. Feeling a strange mixture of worry and second-hand embarrassment as the man's frame shook. Wretched jerks that hurt just looking at as he snapped the seal on the last Pepper-up potion and slapped it into the wizard's hand.

He carefully ignored the way Severus' wand hand twitched against the coverlet, too weak to cast the charm himself. Instead, he silently refilled the man's glass with a careless flick of his hand. Not bothering with his wand as the Potions master arced a brow between coughs. Nearly spilling the damn thing as the muscles in his arms trembled, sipping at the shaking rim with exhausted delicacy.

"You never told me you could do wandless magic," Severus remarked after a long moment. "Is that a recent development or are we being lied to about our American cohorts and their abominable education system?"

He grunted, letting go of a huff of sound that any other day might have been a laugh. "You never told me half the shit they printed in the papers, so I figure we come out about even, don't you?"

The silence that followed was comfortable, familiar. Reminding him of all the nights they'd spent in a far corner of the Slytherin common room. Reading. Shooting the shit. Sometimes just sharing the quiet beside a roaring fire. Listening to the _scritch-scritch_ of moving quills and the soft flutter of pages.

"Your muggle?" Severus eventually asked - all politeness. Fighting the tail end of a wheeze as he rolled his neck and watched his expression change.

"Doesn't deserve half the shit she puts up with, bein' saddled with me. But she's still stuck like glue," he answered, fingers automatically going to the gold band on his ring finger. It was marked up, just like him. Wearing around the edges like a metaphor, but still tight enough that he doubted he could get it off if he tried. Which, truth be told, he wasn't that fussed about.

 _They'd have to pry it off his cold dead finger if she ever wanted it back._

 _He was in too deep for anything else._

He didn't ask how Snape knew. He just did. It was a universal constant that he'd just accepted at this point. So, no, he didn't ask, he didn't ask how Snape probably knew about the girl – about Sophia. About how he'd found the two of them that night. Her little eyes dead and staring, but _still_ moving. Still trying to sink her teeth into her mother as the woman sobbed. Tears glittering as she kept her at an arm's length – just out of reach of slavering lips and snapping teeth.

He didn't ask, but he didn't exactly offer either. And really, why should he bother? Weren't none of the wizard's business after all. Even if he was dyin'. Hell, the idea that the man had been keepin' tabs on him at all made him god damned _itchy_.

Dark lashes fanned out across sallow ivory. Reminding him of other things, of _better_ days as Severus watched him work through it. Because the truth was, he remembered every moment. The taste of rabbit stew and muggle cigarettes. The after-image of Rick's face roaring through the fire grate, warning him about a disturbance in his sector. He remembered the book he dropped mid-page – "Confronting the Faceless" – and the way his wand flew into his grip as he took off through the brush at an uneasy lope.

He remembered how it felt. Shouldering the pressing weight of sickness and decay before a sudden wind swirled the scent of singed earth and dried out pine through the bottle-neck of the valley. Cloying and thick as the inky signature of fell magic spread like tendrils overhead. Dark and gritty as he sent up a flare – blossoming golden-blond overhead as it curled around the three of them in a dome. Dispelling the darkness with a clipped handful of words before sending a beacon overhead.

They never found out who did it. Or the spell that had made that dead little girl walk again. All he did know was how he'd put her down. How he'd held the woman as she cried. Twitching inside his own meat suit as her sleeves rucked up, freckled skin splattered with vicious bruises. How he'd stayed up with her all that night, unable to bring himself to wipe her memory and tell her lies that were probably worse than the truth as she slept fitfully in that small muggle hotel room. Fingers still tangled. Like he was the only thing tethering her to this world and she was determined not to let go.

Figured Snape would know all about the one he hadn't been able to let go of.

He'd always had a knack for that.

 _For knowing._

* * *

 **A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter, this got a titch longer than expected, oops! Stay tuned!

 **Reference:**

"Confronting the Faceless" is the text Severus Snape used during his one year tenure as Defence of the Dark Arts teacher during Harry's 6th year at Hogwarts. Its focus is defensive and offensive spells.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the rights to the Harry Potter franchine or AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** (No zombies) AU on the ending of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" where instead of dying immediately the venom caused Snape to endure a slow, lingeringly painful death. Thus having time for some 'before death commiserating' with an old 'friend.' This is a Daryl/Snape (past relationship) and a Caryl (present relationship) fic.

 **Warnings:** This is basically Daryl in the Wizarding word, visit Britain as an American wizard who did a brief exchange program thingie at Hogwarts during his fifth year while Snape was also a student at Hogwarts. Adult language, ust, canon character death, angst, drama, hurt/comfort, injury/illness and mild sexual content.

 **Specialis Revelio (because we both know the past is never passed)**

 **Chapter Three**

"Why did you want me here?" he finally asked, leaning back in his chair as a floorboard outside of the room creaked. Suspicious and whinging as he smirked without flair. Allowing the eavesdropper a few moments to bask in their so called prowess before casting a silencing charm.

Thinking how not so long ago he might have followed that up with a jinx, just for the hell of it. Would serve 'em right for puttin' their nose where it don't belong, after all. He canted his head when the thought refused to leave. Realizing that somewhere along the line, he must have gotten old. Because he wouldn't have even thought about if it he were anywhere else but here. Remembering the good 'ol days horsing around the castle grounds and drafty halls.

It was surprisingly hard to stomach, now that he thought about it.

About the time that'd passed them by and how much they'd changed because of it.

 _Depressing as shit, actually._

"You know why," Severus conducted, wand hand twitching again like an emotional tell. Eyes glassy and sunk deep into their sockets as the gauntness of his face surpassed skeletal and moved slowly into something most people would call desiccated.

"Do I?" he echoed, brow riding high. Leather robes swirling around his feet as he propped his boots up against the frame of the bed. Feeling the emotional backwash of the words rise up in this throat like sick-up. Hating himself for still letting it get to him after all this time. "You let me go."

"I had to, for more than a few reasons," the man returned, eyes sparking briefly, an echo of his old fire showing through. "Surely by now, after everything that happened, you know that. There was too much at stake, and I couldn't-"

"And what? That's supposed to make me feel better?" he snapped, getting a prime time view of his younger self shoving his shit into his bag. Showing the man his back as Severus just watched, cold and aloof, dark hair pooling in front of his eyes. Looking for all the world like he _didn't_ care. Like he _didn't_ want him.

He hadn't understood it at the time. Still didn't if he was being honest. Hours earlier he'd been convinced that there was nowhere on earth he'd rather be than by Severus' side. He'd been so sure. It hadn't made sense. The sudden turn – like a muggle light switch flipping from on to off.

He'd traveled home with the taste of him on his skin, his scent on his clothes. Trying to work through what had happened, what he must have done wrong after they'd had each other for months. Inseparable and practically drowning in one another since the moment he'd shown up at Spinner's End a few months after they'd graduated. Wilted and mussed from his broom flight across the pond. Living for the hungry spark that lit itself in the back of the man's eyes before he reached out and pulled him in. Surprising them both when the embrace lengthened and one of them – he never remembered which – finally had the balls to kiss the other stupid.

The expression Snape fixed him with might have been a smile.

Or maybe just a snarl.

"No. The truth never does."

He fumed silently. A muscle in his jaw flexing violently – struggling to hold back a whole stream of things he knew he'd regret - as he stared at the opposite wall. Because really, what else could he say to that other than a big steaming pile of _fuck you_?

"You could have stayed," the man pointed out, voice breaking like all the sins in the world were catching up to him. "I didn't say it, but I wanted you to."

"No," he replied, shaking his head with remarkably little heat and more than a tinge of sadness. Suddenly confident in the negative as thoughts he'd long come to terms with curled down his tongue and into the open air. "You wanted the best of both worlds."

"It's hard to compete with someone you placed on a pedestal before your balls dropped, Sev," he murmured, reaching forward and allowing their fingers to brush as the potion master's breathing began to thin out.

"The way I see it, you did me a favor. Probably in more ways than one."

* * *

"Will you stay?" the man asked, hours later. Hand gripping his tightly, unashamed and almost painfully tight as the wizard's eyes grew unfocused – blind. "Till the end?"

"Yeah, I'll stay. I'll keep you safe," he rasped, looking but not really seeing as the walls closed in, stifling with the memories of another time and another place when he'd told him the very same. Holding him through the aftershocks of one nightmare after another. The sheets still twisted around them, damp with sweat and slick as he ran his fingers through the man's hair and pressed a kiss to his temple.

"Always."

* * *

Whether by accident or design, the girl from before – Hermione - was on the deck when he slammed through the door and into the murky fall air. He caught her in his peripheral vision – curled up on the corner railing, knees to chest and remarkably small. But he just showed her his teeth, hating her immediately. Refusing to feel guilty about it as he leaned back against the door, fighting the urge not to haul back and punch something.

He felt- _oh god, he felt._

Grief and rage intermingled as his magic coiled, tight and wandless underneath his skin. Threatening to boil over as he took a deep breath, then another. Forcing it back. Swallowing it down like the burn of fresh vomit as the flame inside threatened to explode outwards. Wreathing the world in fire as emotion was made flesh, then destroyed in kind.

He hadn't felt this unbalanced since-

When he came back to himself, cracking lids he hadn't realized he'd squeezed shut, she was staring at him openly. Curiously. Eyes warm and intelligent, looking out of place in her muggle clothes, wand in a holster on her thigh. It made him wince in sympathy. He'd looked like that once. Awkwardly trying to bridge the gap between two worlds. Magical and Muggle. Unwilling to fully give up one for the other even as the world of his birth grew less relevant by the day.

He wondered what she'd told her parents during the war. He wondered if they understood. Truly understood? God knows Merle never had. He'd never told his old man, letting him believe it was some boarding school for the gifted, free fuckin' education the old dickhead didn't care about one way or another. Too busy chasin' diner-trash to give two shits about what his kids were doing any day of the week. But Merle had known. He'd been the one that had told him to go. Speaking to him through the phone between the thick plexi-glass during his first stint in the big time after he'd punched that guy's teeth in. Cursing up a blue streak about 'fuckin' weird ass magical shit' one minute, before swearing that he'd wallop him right to the moon if he didn't write back and tell the school his ass would be on a plane to Salem in time for the start of fall term.

The magic around the house shuddered. Rippling like an inlet pond. Sensing more than feeling the change as Arthur began working his way through the proper enchantments. Honoring the man's final wishes as he prepared Severus' body for burial. And despite her age, he could tell she sensed it too. Lower lip trembling, blinking quickly before he tasted the edge of unshod tears as they graced the air - close and ungratifying.

He still hated her. He had to. Knowing himself well enough that if he wanted to get out of here with his pride intact, he had to make himself believe it. He had to feel the burn of it. Imagine a thousand things she probably hadn't done just to psych himself up for it. But then, somewhat predictably, she had to go and ruin it by opening her god damned mouth.

"There are things he did I can't forgive," she started hesitantly, watching him through a sheath of rioting curls as he stiffened reflexively. "But knowing why? Knowing the reason? Well, it doesn't make it better, but it makes it easier to understand. To understand why he did them."

He got the past back in flashes.

The sound Severus had made when he came.

The soft touches, surprisingly gentle.

Hands that didn't flinch when they traced angry scars.

Caresses unlooked for in the beginning, but no less welcome.

The torn expression in the man's eyes that had dared to give him hope in the end.

Then the harsh words that had sent him reeling back to the States, hating him.

Thinking that the man had never-

"Speak for yourself," he snarled, recoiling through the mental onslaught as several decades worth of latent grief threatened to pull him down with it – suffocating him while he was still screaming as the after image of Severus' face, drawn tight and transported in the moment of pleasure mingled with the gaunt stranger he'd spent the night treating vigil over. Holding him gently as the light inside dimmed and the tears he couldn't hold back trickled down the curve of the man's face. Sightless eyes vacant and staring as death pried his soul loose and set him free.

He twisted away, wand tearing itself from his pocket and jumping into his hand as the girl's sneakers hit the creaky porch wood. Mouth open and about to say something as he visualized his room at the Leaky Cauldron. Doing a shit job of muffling the wounded whimper that worked its way up his throat before he apparated jerkily. Leaving behind the scent of bitter rage and burnt rose pedals as he lost himself in the whirling blur of magic.

The last thing he saw was the girl's widening eyes. Startled but strongly kind as clarity rippled across her face like a Georgian sunrise.

* * *

He was man enough to admit that even years later – long after Severus had been put to ground - that moment still haunted him. Because the thing was, once upon a time, Carol had worn that same fuckin' look.

It had been the same night she'd looked up at him, shell-shocked and gasping as the moon rose against the distant sky, but still putting the pieces together. Still trying. Desperate for it. Hungry for it. Needing to understand as the slim form of her only child growled with bloody teeth. Taking it in with hitching sobs he could feel against his chest as he grabbed her close, keeping her from running forward as an arc of quicksilver sparks erupted from his wand. Shattering the thing that'd once been her daughter into tiny, slivering pieces. Catching the light like broken glass as the whites of watery blue eyes reflected in the growing pale.

She'd looked up at him then, delicate neck craning. Away from the pile of shattered color. Away from the mangled undergrowth and the ring of small little bodies still strewn around the clearing as Rick and Michonne appeared beside him, wands drawn - too little too late.

She looked up at him with eyes that had seen him first as a savior. Then as a murderer. And third, as a wall she could take shelter against. A solid protection freely given as the winds of change rocked her on her foundations. Threatening to take everything she had left as she buried her face into the crook of his neck and grasped him tight.

Shit like that wasn't something a man easily forgets _._ Especially when those eyes would eventually be those of the women he ended up makin' his. A woman who loved him despite who he was and what he'd had to do. Despite who he hadn't been able to save that cold winter day when push came to shove.

It had been his world that had done this to her. _His._ That failure was on him. He knew that. Losing her girl had cored her out. Guttering her spark despite the years that passed and the smiles she gave him freely. The wound remained, open and festering. There was no charm, no spell- no potion that could change that.

There was no greater crime than taking someone's light.

And that was what his world had done to him now, twice over.

So, maybe Severus would save him a seat in hell.

Because either way, he was pretty sure he'd be seein' him.

* * *

 **A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete.


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